Blind Spot
by December Writing Dragon
Summary: Russia and America roughhouse; it is not uncommon for them, even at meetings. It's also not uncommon for things to get a little too rough. It takes barely a second for the back of Russia's head to collide with the wall, to be struck in just the right place to rob him of his vision. With Russia blinded, America must now cater to the injured nation for however long necessary. RusAme.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

It should have been a sign of just how numbed everyone was to Russia and America's antics that they did not even bat an eyelash as the two blatantly worked to rile each other up. Indeed, their roughhousing had become, in a word, routine.

But what would occur today would actually be far from routine.

Unsuspecting of the turn today's events would take, England did little more than roll his eyes as America smirked and continued to goad Russia, who returned fire with relish. Japan's passive expression did not change as he simply sidestepped the others as he walked. Italy continued talking with Germany as though nothing of interest were happening.

There was no reason for such actions. Everyone was aware of the softer looks the two countries sent each other, going out of their way to exchange gentle touches, perform subtle little displays to incite reactions of a more scandalous nature in the other. No, this teasing and needling and physical display of strength was simply them unable to help themselves. After a thriving romance withered to barely checked rivalry, even after affection was allowed to bloom with the spring thaw, Russia and America had had a taste of competition together and found they liked it. And so their renewed relations had something more. And they were letting out that something more in the hallway outside of the conference room.

"Fine, don't use your possessed scarf. I can still beat you with both hands tied behind my back," America boasted. Anyone who had been listening to the exchange would know they were proposing a wrestling match.

"Aaah," Russia sighed musically. "A beautiful sight that would make."

America snapped his fingers in front of Russia's somewhat glazed eyes. "Mind out of the gutter, Braginsky. Unless you're just so excited for me to take my prize when I win."

"I am excited to see you proven wrong. Again." Russia looked him over, mind a little more focused away from that earlier tantalizing prospect, though thoughts clearly not particularly pure.

America scoffed dismissively, stopping where he stood. Wheeling round, he jabbed a finger into Russia's chest. "All I'm hearing is someone looking to avoid something he knows he's going to lose."

Russia stepped closer, America's finger pressing harder into his chest even as he grabbed it. "You know I do not avoid anything." It was with the increased pressure of his hold on America's finger that their tussle began. When America felt his finger being forced to bend a way it certainly was not meant to, he squirmed, free hand flashing out in retaliation. Russia relinquished his hold in favor of meeting America's strike, and soon the two were grappling, jabbing, kicking, pulling…and laughing. Light flashed across the lenses of America's glasses, masking the confident glint in his eyes but replacing it with something more dangerous. The sight alone drew an enticed smirk from Russia as the two continued to wrestle, their actions almost completely ignored by the rest of the world. A few glanced their way out of curiosity, or shook their heads in parental disapproval (such a response was reserved for England). On the two fought, America wriggling in Russia's hold, his back pressed to Russia's chest as the other slipped two cool hands under his shirt, fingertips dancing over sensitive skin.

"Augh- no…fair!" America choked out through his forced laughter. He jerked and writhed, chest heaving with mirth as he tried in vain to escape Russia's fingers. The heels of his feet squeaked against the polished floor as he tried to push Russia back, back against the wall. The slight _thump_ behind him told America he had made progress, as Russia was now sandwiched between the wall and his captive. "Hands…off!" America gasped, prying at Russia's hands. Sensing defeat, Russia changed his course; in one fluid motion he tugged the hem of America's shirt up over his chest, covering his face, letting the fabric hook onto America's head. Without pausing, though wishing he had a better view, Russia resumed tickling with one hand, and pressing his cold flesh to America's stomach with the other.

It felt like an ice cube was sliding over his heated skin. The combined sensations and restrictions drew a particularly violet jerk from America; with a heave, he arched back, body and head driving Russia in turn back against the wall. Through the sounds of his own struggling, America heard a potent _crack_ behind him, and the hands on him slipped away. Scrambling forward, America righted his shirt, face considerably more red than it had been before their scuffle. Panting, he turned to his opponent, nodding in approval at seeing Russia slumped on the floor, one hand cradling his head, the other pressed against the back of it.

"See? That's just a preview of how our match will go down." He nodded, flashing a triumphant, albeit tired, grin. Stepping back over, he extended a hand to help Russia up.

Russia's head barely moved as he tried to inspect the figure before him. His eyes roved blearily left then right, making no sign of acknowledging the hand offered to him.

"America?" Russia asked in a hollow voice.

America raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, big guy?" he asked patiently, still waiting to pull Russia to his feet.

Russia's head turned, a broken moan escaping him with every movement. He stared blankly somewhere to the left and down of America's face. "America?" he said again, eyes widening in mounting dismay before fluttering in equally potent discomfort. He rubbed at his head, face twisting in a grimace, body swaying slightly. A few people had congregated to where the two had fought now.

"Yeah? I'm here." America's easy smile steadily slid into a confused frown. "What's up, hot stuff?" He waited in the same position as Russia shakily swayed and groaned.

At last, Russia raised a hand. But it was not to accept America's proffered one. Rather, it was to raise in front of his own paling face, back and forth.

"I cannot see."

.。.:*・° .。.:*・°

Notes: Heeey, look at me with another multichapter fic! I feel less guilty about starting this, though, since I finished Red on White, my OC fanfic is partly for myself, and I am starting to work on End of Endings again. I feel good about doing this multichapter fic; I have plans and priorities. I'm done with classes at a college I didn't want to go to. I _am_ taking a science course, but it's just one and like I said, I feel better about how I handle my time and goals. So, with chapter one, I present you the beginning of Blind Spot! Enjoy!

Also, while I'm putting this as humor (along with romance), that may change, as inevitably I will incorporate hurt/comfort elements into it. I'll make that change when we get there.

Next chapter Russia receives medical attention and a formal diagnosis. America, meanwhile, receives his special assignment. See you there!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

America became very well acquainted with his shoes for much of the trip to the doctor. The weight of his impulsive mistake hung heavy enough to bow his head abashedly, until America realized that without him looking ahead to watch for obstacles, it was the blind leading the blind. Still, even with his gaze reluctantly raised, America tried his best not to make eye contact with Russia, or to even glance at him. But a peripheral glimpse was inevitable, and so America became aware of the slight frown tugging at Russia's lips as they navigated their way through the medical complex

One hand remained perched lightly on America's shoulder as Russia's free hand gingerly touched his head, his look of discomfort refusing to be fully hidden. Even the slightest glimpse of it set America stomach churning guiltily, drove his shoulders up closer and closer to his ears.

There was no reprieve for America at the doctor's office, the most medical assistance he could convince Russia to get since the man vehemently refused to go to a hospital ("I hate hospitals.") Perhaps because they no longer needed to move, perhaps the suspended contact between them let Russia forget America was there, but the moment he was seated in the waiting room he doubled over, head cradled in his hand, moaning softly. America watched on, eyes treacherously glued to Russia's hunched and pained form, his own stomach now determined to fall straight to the polished floor. He extended a hand. Paused. It hovered there, in the limited space separating the two seated countries, a sliver of no-man's-land ready to shape the rest of the day. America was not ready for this, did not want such small gestures to count for so much when so little thought could go into them. But was it not a small gesture with so little thought that counted for so much what got them here? Mere inches were traveled to slam Russia's head against the wall, a single swipe that stole away his sight as a magician vanished a coin.

His tanned fingers had just touched Russia's shoulder when they were called in, America quickly retracting his hand as Russia gave a noncommittal grunt and slowly rose.

There was something disquieting about seeing great, imposing Russia, so unresponsive to some of his boss's most morbid machinations, visibly emote discomfort in such a public setting. America's eyes swept back and forth as he slowly led the other out of the waiting room and down the hall to the doctor's office.

The doctor in question was one of the few throughout the country America himself saw on occasion, and one of the special souls privy to the knowledge of nations walking the earth. Russia had, in his blanket rejection of any hospital visit, insisted on sending for one of his own, but it was England and France who had acted as voices of reason, saying head injuries were a serious matter and, immortal walking landmass or not, some things should be addressed sooner rather than later; throughout _that_ particular speech, America's insides were twisting themselves into pretzels.

Regardless of his unwillingness to see any medical specialist, America knew even Ivan had to admit there was some relief in being with someone they did not need to be vague with. Answers could be relatively straightforward, candid, honest; if he happened to glimpse a smattering of small, old scars in various clusters across the torso, Russia could in fact explain they were from World War II; and if the doctor, when checking his neck for- recent- injury, he need not wonder how anyone could survive the copious scarred lacerations present there.

The doctor hummed thoughtfully after finishing inspecting Russia's neck, raising a funduscope to shine in his eyes. Russia stared blankly at the light, pupils showing no response. That job done, the doctor jerked his hand towards Russia's face, stopping just short of his nose. Not even a blink.

Another hum as the doctor mad notes. "And what was the nature of the collision exactly, Ivan?"

"Carelessness," Ivan said, not seeing America's head swivel nor his eyes widen. "It was in a busy hallway and I was jostled backwards when I hit my head."

"Ah, and there's the final key," the doctor said as he continued the examination. "Damage to the occipital lobe can cause cortical blindness in such cases of head trauma." He turned to America. "You brought him in, yes? You know…pardon me for speaking out of line, but…in cases of head injuries it really is dangerous to move the injured person at all. If there was damage to the neck, we could be looking at a lot worse right now. He really should have an X-ray and a brace."

America's chin was now thoroughly hidden by the collar of his shirt, face feeling overheated even as he tried to seek more shelter behind his shirt and between his uplifted shoulders. "Y-yeah, I probably," he began in a voice that was barely a peep. One single flick of the eyes and he saw Russia wearing a supremely satisfied smile, one of such smugness it ought to be illegal. "Reel it in, Braginsky," he snapped.

The doctor turned, Russia's smile replaced by stoicism. "So what do I do?" he asked, glancing down, unseeing, at his own lap, only feeling himself move his hands before him.

"Traditionally," the doctor explained slowly. "Cortical blindness _can_ be temporary, and I would imagine it would be temporary for you anyway, what with…" A vague gesture of the hand. "There are other symptoms I might have expected from head trauma this debilitating, but you seem to be shrugging it off pretty well. In any other case I would strongly advice going to the hospital. My best bet," he continued as Russia tried to send him a hard look, and ended up glaring at the cabinet instead. "Is that your status as a…and this injury are mixing a bit differently. You may not feel some things as severely with how you people heal, but at the end of the day the occipital lobe _was_ damaged and needs to heal. All I can say for sure is that it _will_ be temporary for you, and you should be okay to move around without worrying about further head or neck related injuries or complications. I do suggest taking it easy for a bit, of course. You _are_ navigating without a major sense of perception."

Russia smiled once more. Unlike the gentle private ones America had come to enjoy during their time together, this one held something a little less than innocent. And unfortunately the pang of anticipation it sent through America was not the exhilarating kind he sometimes got from Russia's more impure looks either.

"I am not concerned," Russia said coolly, hand slapping down on the bed beside him. He patted around, seeking America, and landed on his knee. He delivered several hearty smacks to his leg, smiling broader still. "I have very good help with me."

"Well, if America is helping you, you couldn't be in better hands," the doctor chuckled good-naturedly. As he chuckled, his country turned a unique shade of pallid green. "I trust you to take care of your patient well! Better than when you brought him in, that is. Moving someone with a head injury…my God…"

America let out a shrill laugh that was more like a yelp. "Haha, of course! No problem here, doc! You and Ivan can count on me!" An arm draped shakily around Russia's shoulder in a sign of good faith; Russia's own wrapped around America's waste, tugging him close. The doctor laughed at the antics, at America's weary, guilt-ridden grimace of a smile and Russia's silent promise of relentless teasing and general vow to never let America live any of this down.

Indeed, he made good on that unvoiced yet implicit promise.

"So, you could have injured me even more," Russia said airily when they were back in the car. His hair fell from his face as he reclined his seat back slightly, eyes straight ahead and unseeing.

Russia did not need to witness the twisted look of guilt America wore to know it was there; his pained moan filled in all he needed to enjoy the effects of his needling. "I'm sorry!" America's voice was muffled from behind the hands clasped over his face, hiding him further from his blind audience. "I was just freaked out, okay? Even I sometimes get a little freaked out and don't think-"

"Sometimes?"

Another stifled groan. "I'm _sorry_ ," America said again. "I really am _sorry_."

"America." The voice speaking to him now was somewhat gentler, though the merry lilt could not fully leave Russia's voice while he was making America squirm so successfully. "We have done worse to each other without meaning to. This will hopefully be over sooner rather than later, and I shall think of fun ways to get even all the while."

America retreated from behind his hands, peering at his boyfriend currently staring at the steering wheel. "Y-yeah," he mumbled, reaching into his inner reserves for some of his usual enthusiasm. Fortunately, it was a deep well of energy he possessed, though it was hard work to draw from it. "But you have to let me make it up to you in the meantime." It was not a request. "And this isn't a debate." He knew too well how Russia could get at the idea of being fussed over; it was too foreign a concept for him to handle comfortably, and the bemused look of hesitancy Russia sometimes wore was a treat America was shameless about indulging in.

"That is up to you," Russia said firmly, reaching over to ruffle America's hair. He ended up dislodging your glasses.

"Just get ready, beautiful. You are going to get repaid _hard_."

Silence.

"Wait, uh, I mean…"

.。.:*・° .。.:*・°

Chapter 3 coming soon! Thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated. While you wait, check out some of my other work.

See you soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

There was something charming in the way Russia tried to be subtle with holding his hands out to feel around him, unseeing. If America weren't so guilt-ridden over putting him in such a state in the first place, he might have enjoyed the situation. As it was, Russia himself did not seem particularly perturbed…beyond what would be expected, of course. No amount of guilt, however, could quite stifle the tender bout of delight America felt when he clasped Russia's shoulders and felt the distinctive twitch of muscle beneath his grasp.

It awakened America's protective instincts every time Russia hesitated before moving forward, so unsure of how to navigate the world now. Even when Russia was of sound body, America tried to find excuses to fuss on him, attempts that were usually met with a look that could raise the hairs on the back of the most hardened criminals. Every single one of those looks was met with one of America's determined smiles that always turned endearing, and from there turned into barely-suppressed delight when Russia looked away with cheeks a few shades darker and face twisted in confusion.

Now, Russia had no one to direct those offended glares at but himself.

America could see the mounting frustration in Russia's tensing shoulders and balled fists, the scowls and the gritted teeth.

It became a cycle: Russia would take a few hurried steps forward, face set with unwarranted surety. Then the slightest change in the terrain would cause him to jerk to a halt, slowing his steps and reaching his feet out slowly one at a time like one might use a cane.

America breathed a sigh of relief when his car came into view. This whole trek had been like a misbalanced game of tag, and he, America, the chaser, had to make sure his target did not fall and suffer further damage. His fingers skirted over Russia's arms, grazed his shoulders, and America allowed himself to ignore Russia's prideful huff of protest and hold him tighter.

"We're right there," he sighed gratefully, leading Russia to the passenger door.

As Russia climbed in, feeling around with his hands, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. "I can drive."

A stunned silence hung heavy in the air.

"Kidding." Russia rolled his eyes, grimacing as he finished clambering in.

Disgruntled, stressed and guilt-ridden, America shook his head as he slid into his own seat. "With how you drive, probably wouldn't be too different," he grumbled. "Hey!" Russia's hand blindly groped at his face. America knew what Russia was trying for and moved to duck out of the way-

But too late. Russia's long fingers had already found his ear. Russia _pulled_. Hard.

"I need to drive!" America crowed. He flailed, pawing roughly at the offending hand's painful grip. Russia held fast.

"Do not be rude to your guest that you blinded and nearly paralyzed."

America's fidgeting died. Russia did not need to see to know a look of pain was twisting America's face as he groaned into the steering wheel, his ear blessedly released.

"I'm _sorry_!"

"In Russian."

More groaning, accompanied this time by the sound of mild writhing. " _Prosti…menya_ ," America ground out. He glanced over in time to see the small, satisfied smile crossing Russia's face and sighed. "Nope. Not doing this." He spoke more to himself than to Russia as he turned on the car, gripped the wheel, and drove them out of the parking lot. "Not doing this. Not letting you make me feel bad 24/7, cause if I'm feeling bad, then I'm not doing my duty."

"Hmmm," Russia hummed idly, elbow resting on the window ledge. "Do you have painkillers?"

"Middle console. You know that."

Russia felt around in the compartment between the two seats. America heard the rattling of pills in a bottle as he stopped at a red light. Russia waved the small white bottle. "These are painkillers, yes? Not your Viagra?"

America sneered. "Dick."

"Yes, I know what it is for." Russia's smile grew when he heard the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh, and knew America had slapped his own forehead. Shoulders shaking with mirth, Russia extracted three capsules and dry swallowed them.

"I think that'd be more of an insult to yourself than to me if I needed Viagra, pal," America said dryly as they drove on. "Maybe you're just not as good as you like to think."

"You certainly did not seem to believe that last month."

"Cause I remembered to take my Viagra."

Though his stomach still twisted at the memory of what happened earlier today, America allowed himself to enjoy the sight of Russia looking so openly amused. In this way, part of him, a small, secret part America wanted to deny harboring, America was glad for today's incident. It began to dawn on him, as he spent time stopped at traffic lights casting open glances at Russia, that without Russia able to see him stare, he could gaze comfortably at the infinite spectrum of emotions and nuances and facial idiosyncrasies Russia normally kept in check. That was not to say Russia was not open with him- at least not in moments of reprieve, where even Russia felt comfortable enough to let America past his secure outer walls.

No, but even to this day it was clear there was some measure of control in Russia's behaviors, especially when he knew America was watching. As if out of habit, when knowing he was under observation Russia would act with great deliberation, no matter the action. In some cases, this manifested in something of a game between the two of them. Sometimes in meetings their eyes might lock and Russia, elbow bent atop the table, head resting in his hand, would continue to look at America with eyes of molten lilac energy; the tip of his finger would graze ever so lightly at the corner of his lips. Press just a little. Those same lips would press in a hard line, the corners turn just so. America's head would spin. A gasp spilled, screaming from his lips to reach across the oceanic divide between their seats to kiss against Russia's mouth.

Other times it became a competition of a different sorts, where Russia, in a bout of bemusement and restlessness, would determinedly not meet America's gaze when he saw the fondness his lover wore, or heard the near-cooing America voiced when Russia did something he deemed "adorable." Which, America reasoned, was rich coming from Russia, who was almost always simpering about some inane thing America did- sometimes in a snide way, and sometimes with almost too much tenderness to look directly at.

Knowing the games they played with each other, knowing that though it was decidedly not a most noble sentiment, America allowed himself to enjoy the prolonged looks he could send Russia with such abandon. Though, it was making driving difficult, and more than once a car blared its horn behind him when almost ten seconds had passed since the light turned green and America had yet to move.

"Crazy drivers are out today," Russia said sagely, rolling down the window and offering a rude hand gesture.

"Ahah, yeah. Crazy." The air in the car suddenly felt too warm, and he was grateful for the soft breeze wafting in. Mustering a strength of will he was not aware he possessed, America kept his eyes trained on the road ahead of him, head straight, both glad and remorseful the range of his glasses prevented him from seeing Russia in his peripherals. There were no further incidents, and the sight of his home lifted a great weight from America's shoulders.

"Going somewhere?" he asked dryly as Russia opened his door and stepped out.

Russia stared blankly at the car. "I am just getting out." He said it with the air of someone explaining that one plus one equaled two.

"Uh-huh." America did the same, quickly throwing off his belt and slipping from his seat to Russia's side. "Except you never _just_ do one thing, and I don't think your boss would be thrilled if you fell and cracked your head open in my home."

"My boss will not hear a word of what happened." America was treated to an undisguised look of weariness shadowing Russia's features as he stared off somewhere else. Small creases of worry formed at the corners of his unseeing eyes, and America looked down in time to see a hand ball itself into the long trailing tail of his scarf. America grimaced. Any other time he might have offered a bracing smile, but as that would prove useless to Russia, he would have to rely on his tone alone.

"Well, I'd like to keep being able to hang with you, so he won't hear it from me." His fingers found Russia's free hand, gently clasped it, letting their joined hands sway slightly between them.

Russia's grip tightened. "I know that." Something hardened in his voice, roughened by his own trepidations. It was not just for America's sake that today's events could not be known to their bosses. Russia knew his own boss's expectations of him, and was in a constant, vain, attempt to always meet them.

"Hey. C'mon, you don't need to be ominous for me to get it." America stuck his tongue out, inwardly smirking at Russia's unresponsiveness.

"And yet sometimes you all need some motivation to listen." Russia stared intensely down at him…precisely, his collarbone.

America clasped Russia's chin, adjusting his gaze to be level with America's. "Up here, big guy. Just how short do you think I am?" His fingers shifted up slightly and tightened, squishing Russia's cheeks.

Face twisting, Russia stepped clumsily back, rubbing at his face. "About half the size as that ego of yours." He wheeled round, marching forward, hands outstretched.

America shrieked, bounding forward as Russia headed right for a metal tool shelf. His hands clasped at Russia's sides, shoulders sagging gratefully when Russia did as he hoped and stopped. The sudden pause was accompanied by a twitch through his body and an elbow knocking America's glasses askew.

America paused as once more Russia spun around, and he was treated to one of Russia's more endearing flustered looks, the kind that had a slight sting of impatience to it. It was a dangerous look, and certainly one that caused others a great deal of justifiable worry, but one of America's favorites.

"Try it and die," Russia vowed. "You know how this always ends for you, America."

"Actually." America beamed confidently as he took a moment to appreciate the way Russia's eyes darted around, fighting desperately to see his opponent. Every fiber of his being seemed to be on edge- twitchy, even. "I like my odds this time." In one motion, he swooped forward, hands prodding and tickling mercilessly at Russia's side.

.。.:*・° .。.:*・°

It just isn't a rusame fic by me if there isn't a tickle fight shoe horned in. Promise things will pick up more in future installments! For now, I'm just finishing setting stuff up and just having fun with the guys…and letting them have fun with each other. But there will be serious undertones as well- I know one thing in particular I have planned, and others coming to mind as I go. Enjoy! See you next time!


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